Han Temu held the phone to his ear in silence. The words from his mother-in-law echoed, soft but weighty, like falling snow that refused to melt.
He glanced toward the balcony, where Cha-yeon had just stepped out, her back to him, arms wrapped around herself in the cool air.
On the phone, there was a sniffle. A quiet breath.
Mother-in-law (voice trembling):
"She's a little stubborn sometimes, but it's just her way of protecting herself. She gets that from me… Please… just don't leave her alone in this world."
Temu finally spoke, his voice low and steady, but gentle:
Temu:
"I understand. I won't."
There was silence on the other end. Then the call ended.
He stood still for a moment, hand still clutching the phone, as if holding onto something invisible.
He opened the balcony door. The night air slid in like a whisper.
Temu:
"You're cold again."
Cha-yeon didn't turn.
Cha-yeon:
"You didn't have to answer, if you didn't want to."
Temu walked to her side, leaving a respectful space between them.
Temu:
"It was your mother."
She turned slightly, her face lit faintly by the glow of distant city lights.
Cha-yeon:
"She worries. She still thinks I'm fifteen."
Temu (quietly):
"She said you're her heart."
There was a pause. Then a fragile smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
Cha-yeon:
"She always says that. Even when I failed my high school math test."
Temu:
"She asked me to take care of you."
Cha-yeon (teasing):
"She makes it sound like I'm breakable."
Temu:
"Aren't you?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she looked up at the sky — stars buried in clouds, flickering faintly.
Temu:
"You don't have to say anything. Just… if it gets heavy, you can lean. I won't move."
Her breath caught for a second — almost imperceptibly. And for the first time that night, she leaned. Not fully. Not obviously. Just a fraction. But enough.
And he didn't move.
...
The house was quiet again.
The last of the relatives had finally left, their voices fading down the hallway like an unwanted aftertaste. The marble floor still bore the ghostly outlines of their suitcases, their scent still hung in the air — fried snacks, over-perfumed jackets, and judgment.
Han Temu stood by the large window, scrolling through news on his phone. He barely blinked as another headline appeared.
"Lim Cha-yeon's Pregnancy Confirmed?"
"Han Temu Seen Avoiding Questions — What Is He Hiding?"
Cha-yeon:
"Give me that."
She snatched the phone from his hand and stared at the screen.
"Who told them this? I never said anything. I never even —"
Temu (quietly):
"Don't read it."
Cha-yeon:
"Don't read it? This is my name. My face. Our marriage. And they're turning it into a circus."
She placed the phone face-down on the table, but her hands were trembling. Not from fear — from fury. From the powerlessness of watching her life become clickbait.
They both knew who might be behind it.
Officer Kang.
Cha-yeon had seen the way Kang smiled at press conferences. Calculated. Controlled. Her words always smooth, her intentions never loud — but never pure.
Temu remained silent.
Cha-yeon:
"You think it's her, don't you?"
Temu (carefully):
"You have no proof."
Cha-yeon:
"You do, though."
He didn't answer. Just kept his gaze fixed on the clouds outside. That was all the answer she needed.
Earlier that day, Cha-yeon had checked her old, rarely-used email account — one she only kept for archival reasons. There, among the usual spam, was a single flagged message with no subject line.
From: unknown@encryp***mail.net
Subject: (none)
"Officer Kang isn't who you think she is."
Attached: a photo.
Officer Kang. In a cafe. Sitting across from a man with a blurred face — but one Cha-yeon recognized from a police bulletin Temu had once tried to hide. A man tied to forgery, blackmail, and underground intel trading. The timestamp was just two weeks ago.
And beneath the image:
"She's leaking information. The question is: why?"
Cha-yeon (quietly):
"She's playing a game. And we're the board."
Temu:
"I know."
He said it like it burned his throat.
Cha-yeon:
"You knew? Since when?"
Temu didn't answer. Not directly. He just turned toward her, eyes heavy.
Temu:
"Since before the wedding."
The silence between them turned cold. Colder than the marble floors. Colder than the rain beginning to tap against the glass.
Cha-yeon (softly):
"Then why did you say nothing?"
Temu:
"Because I didn't know who she was after. You or me."
Their relatives might have left, but the poison they brought remained.
Aunt Yoon-mi, just before leaving:
"Big house, no warmth. Your husband barely talks. Makes you wonder…"
Uncle Minsu:
"You're rich now, Cha-yeon. But don't forget where you come from. We raised you with respect. Not silence."
And others:
"She must be pregnant — look at how careful she moves."
"They're hiding something."
"Did you see her face? Too perfect. Must be surgery."
"Temu doesn't look happy. Something's wrong."
Cha-yeon (later, whispering to herself):
"They only see what they want to see."
And the world outside — the headlines, the neighbors, the fake smiles and forced bows — they all fed on the idea that a perfect couple must be hiding something.
What terrified her most wasn't the press.
It was the idea that Temu was hiding something.
And that maybe… he was doing it to protect her from the truth.